


Of love and lycorine

by lesbianquill



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Hecate is an emo bitch and so am I, spelling bee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 07:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12502308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianquill/pseuds/lesbianquill
Summary: That night, Hecate takes Pippa to bed.





	Of love and lycorine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MatildaSwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/gifts).



> happy birthday to my gal matildaswan!! i love you, my sweet gay peach ♥ here's some hopeless lesbian witches to celebrate.

That night, after cauldrons and ingredients have been safely put away; after trophy presentations and pats on the back; after children have gone to sleep and staff have retired to their respective rooms; Hecate takes Pippa to bed.

“I’ll be good,” she says, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” Over and over, an incantation on her lips that’s both a promise and a plea. “I’m sorry,” she adds with insistent kisses; a peppering to Pippa’s jaw, her mouth, her cheek. She wants Pippa to know how she feels, and she wants her to know she means it. Wants to undo years of yearning and sorrow, to strip away all that pain and fill the hole she’d left with as much adoration as she can. Hecate loves her, after all. She’s wasted far too long letting her believe otherwise.

“I know, Hiccup,” Pippa whispers against her skin, “I know.”

“Let me show you,” Hecate begs, grips onto bare hips as she pulls Pippa into her lap. Her skin tingles with contact long overdue. How she has longed for this— this electric feeling that leaves her trembling; only now it’s with anticipation rather than fear, elation rather than anguish.

Back then, every touch had meant something— far more than Pippa knew, or so Hecate believed. She cursed herself for every wretched fantasy her mind conjured— lived in shame over the weight of Pippa’s hand in her own and how much she wanted it, and Pippa, in her entirety. _Such a vile, lewd little creature,_ she told herself, often wishing the fingers she touched herself with were Pippa’s instead of her own.

Years of hating herself for getting off with her best friend’s name on the tip of her tongue waned to make way for years of self loathing for never being _enough_. Not back then and not now— _except..._

None of that matters anymore, she realises, overwhelmed with relief— because she can put it right at last.

Her kisses are all hunger— a vicious attack of teeth and tongue— desperate and pleading. Nothing can undo the last thirty years, but Hecate wants to. She’ll do anything, give anything, tear herself apart, even, if Pippa asks her to. So she tugs on that candyfloss-coloured lip with her teeth, pants hot and harsh against her mouth, and begs to touch her.

“ _Please, Pippa._ ”

Pippa responds with the rock of her hips, small but sure, never once taking her eyes off of her. She stares back at Hecate with such wonder, eyes dark and wanting. Tangles her hands in dark hair and pulls, a soft tug as she crashes their lips together, and Hecate _whines._

Immediately, she’s transported back to the memory of the last time Pippa was on her bed— nothing like this, of course— but sat front-to-back as Pippa spent an age carefully combing and meticulously plaiting Hecate’s hair. She hardly said a word that night. Suppressed a groan as Pippa accidentally pulled just a little too hard on a lock woven tight between her fingers. Hecate’s cheeks had burned away like a coal fire— she remembers now how Pippa fretted, assumed that her warmth was exhaustion from revising for their upcoming potions exam all evening rather than her agonising closeness. She never would have guessed back then that this is where she would be now, trapped in a bruising kiss with fingertips that tease at her scalp and draw out each delicious, sinful sound without hesitation.

“ _Yes,_ ” Pippa confirms, allows Hecate that indulgence that she’s only ever dreamed of— and _gods_ , has she dreamed of it. Spindly fingers track the curve of Pippa’s hips, up to cup two soft breasts, to brush thumbs against perfect pink nipples. Pippa arches into the touch, welcomes it; thanks Hecate with a kiss, then another. Hecate feels Pippa shift above her. She’s straddling her thigh now, and _oh!_ There’s a spectacular slickness between them as Pippa grinds down, and Hecate discovers her own arousal is much the same when she’s pulled into a mirroring position. They find the perfect rhythm together— writhing, kissing, gasping— and Hecate wonders why she never crossed this particular boundary sooner.

In truth, she knows perfectly well why it took them so long to get here, but it all seems so trivial now. Everything does, because all she can feel is Pippa: against her lips, under her hands, between her legs. The hot, wet pressure on her thigh that she knows Pippa can feel too.

It’s all too much for her— she’s plunged into an orgasm that leaves her body shaking and her mind numbing all too soon, whimpering softly into Pippa’s neck as she’s cradled and shushed.

“Good girl,” Pippa soothes, “Such a good girl.”

As Hecate lifts her head to brush their lips together, she realises she’s crying. It’s relief, it’s ecstasy, it’s _mourning_. Three decades of emptiness and suddenly she’s so _full_ , brimming over with emotion that attacks her from all sides but keeps her tethered here, in Pippa’s arms.

“Sorry,” she sniffles, and Pippa just smiles— so bright it’s blinding— smoothing gentle hands over jagged shoulders. “You didn’t even... did you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Hiccup,” Pippa reassures, wiping the tears from her flushed cheek, “There’s plenty— _plenty_ of time for that.”

And later, after Hecate is calm, she treasures every wonderful, _perfect_ second of it.


End file.
